Rules of Engagement

For the curious reader:

Here is the engagement ring I bought for my fiancé from Spence Diamonds. You will see an entry about the ring, likely anon, at her blog--by anon I mean soon, as the word ought to be used. When I gave it to her earlier this evening she danced, lithely across the apartment, punctuating her merrymaking with brief pauses to thurst her hand into the air to admire the ring. This gave us an excuse to use another gift I had given previously, an ultrasonic jewelry cleaner, to clean the whole slew of rings and earrings Viv's family owns.

The Old Testament of Weird Fiction

I'll make this brief. Chapters offers its employees a contest to win a $1000 scholarship for school - books, tuition, whatever. The only catch is you have to write a two-page essay on what you consider to be the greatest book released from June 21st 2004 to June 21st 2005. The last entry day for the contest was today, so naturally I put writing this sucker off to the last minute--indeed I started it from scratch around 1 AM this morning and finished it in three hours. I know it shouldn't take very long to write two pages - but a grand is at stake, so I don't want to make careless errors (at least consciously) in my entry. For the book I chose the Library of America's recent controversial anthology of H.P. Lovecraft's tales--emphasising the overdue kudos, his influence, as well as relevance. I tried to stick to far more concrete, rather than literary arguments (though the two blended together, inevitably) to show how monumental something like the Library of America (a publisher exclusively of authors considered 'classic' or 'canon') publishing a collection of Lovecraft tales is.

Read on, read until your dream comes true.

My favourite sentence is:
It takes no stretch of the imagination to see that this compendium of tales is a veritable Old Testament of weird fiction, a necessary companion to the New Testament of modern fantasy, horror and sci-fi writers.

Saving Grace

Yes, I'm quite aware that yesterday's post proves how much of a love fool I am. Have your snell sniggers as you please, but it still won't make me cut it out - especially since I am often turning to writing to express the mishmash of emotions, ideas, and events going through my head lately. It is absolutely overwhelming, such that I feel the need to 'get it out' or tell some imaginary audience or friend. Literally, I feel like a kid again (though I doubt anything ever changed) - harrowing some of my inner thoughts, and diverting them to an 'imaginary' or abstract medium (or technology) rather than making an idea real, or word flesh.

At least this time around there are some real, flesh-and-blood people reading these thoughts. Now my thoughts won't be wistfully spoken to the dirt and water under the bridge (over a creek in Clarkson) as when I was a young boy--the threshold or medium for the imaginary realm where my imaginary friend once resided. Yes, yes, have your snell sniggers again - imagination has been one of the few saving graces in my life, and so has my fiancé.

ADDENDUM: When I think about it, I will have to save these thoughts for the wedding - as well as the song associated with the title, Saving Grace by the Cranberries.

"Methinks It Sounds Much Sweeter Than By Day"

It is rather late for me, well aware I ought to hit the sack soon, as I work in the morning. But work seems like a flash in the pan compared to the evening I plan to spend with my fiancé afterward. What a delightful, mellifluous word it is to the ear, delivering a surge of sweetness to a young brain of twenty-two. It is a sugar high, no doubt, that makes me seem like a dumb- and love-struck fool, but inwardly, I have never felt so happy in my life, practically impervious to the countless daily former shortcomings . I'm a romantic at heart, no matter how aloof or dawdling like Hamlet I am wont.

Now I am beginning to feel twinges of sleepiness, or overtiredness, in the form of headaches . This is what I get for working two weeks straight without a day off --however, after today's shift I have two and a half full days off; Friday afternoon and all of Saturday with my love, and Sunday downtown at the Book Expo getting free autographed books. I never realized how tragic events are wont to turn life into comedy, though I am beginning to suspect reading articles like this, especially tired (or inebriated), can bring a person to newfound wisdom. There's an aphorism, or hairbrained wisdom in there, somewhere.

News Flash ...

Something important is looming ... will update tomorrow after work.

UPDATE: See Vivian's blog for the big news.

(When) Animals Go Wild

The Horror, the Horror

As you may tell, I published scant this whole week. For a short time I had a post (now deleted) bemoaning about some modern horror novel, Michael Laimo's Demonologist. To keep it simple I will say this much: it was trite, stupid, and dilapidated in plot, language, and originality. I should have known better than to expect a modern novel, especially 'horror', to be something more than a ripped-off plot from Lovecraft, Poe or Stoker. Then again, I wasn't truly looking for these qualities, but rather a distraction from the hectic week it has been. The trials (and tribulations) of this week, and the weeks to come, are, and will be arduous, like a hegira.

(A new word to add to my vocabulary, compliments of Merriam-Webster's Word A Day)

A full week, now, I have gone without my own car. In many respects, to the chagrin of some, I feel a joy to be liberated from the higgledy-piggledy life of a car owner. When riding the public transit buses I can delve in to a book, rather than worry about navigating the treacherous sea of incompetent GTA drivers. Plus it has been easier to save money, a feat I never knew for the last four and a half years. There are better things, and people, to make better use of my money than a rusted tin can with wheels.

Words of Inspiration

Milton's Satan said it best:

Farewell happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.

We Are The Champions, My Friend

Definitely seems I won't have a car for quite some time. No worries. We're working out plans here at home that will allow everyone to keep up their regular schedule. It just requires a bit of team-work, and some sacrifices. No worries. I once lived without a car, I can do it again...lol

Another One Bites The Dust

You will probably not see much posted on this blog in the next while, since earlier this morning my car broke (down)--thus kicking the bucket. For the next few days I'll be hunting for a new car. The car is simply not worth repairing, so I'm now on an odyssey in search of home: a new one.

I'm just glad the mechanical problems happened as I was reversing from a gas pump, rather than on the road, at high speeds and/or with the four passengers who were going to be in the car about an hour later. One can only call it divine intervention, there is nothing else to call it--I have been fortunate throughout my life, as though protected by angels, to emerge unscathed from some rough accidents. Especially after last year's car accident--crashing into a concrete guard-rail then swerving out of control across two high traffic lanes of the transfer ramp from the 401 E to the 410--to be intact, and alive.

On The Bright Side

My seven-month old nephew, Kamdyn.

Wanted: Dead or Alive

Well the cat's out of the bag ... and back hunting birds (big and small) again. One of the cats in the house, Cleta, profiled on your left, abstained from killing birds for almost a week. Previously, she was on a killing spree - bringing home birds, baby or adult, every other day, as young cats are wont.

When I called her earlier this afternoon from the backdoor she came quickly, slinking under the backyard fence, proudly, with a baby robin in her maw. Since she wanted to bring it into the house, unfortunately, I had to pry it from her jaws, the bird still alive. The bird died about five minutes later in my hands, a final convulsion of legs and wings as if ready to fly for the first time.

A tragic, sentimental story for the day, but true.

ADDENDUM: I am beginning to suspect this cat has some uncanny charisma, or something, with the natural world. A few minutes ago, I was sitting outside reading a book, and Cleta was sprawled spread-eagle atop the fence. A young, black squirrel was making its way along a nearby fence, then it spotted Cleta and curiously made its way towards her. The rodent inched closer to her, face-to-face, drawing nigh to the lazy, Garfield-sprawled cat only half-a-foot away. I think the squirrel, at this point, figured out that this black cat wasn't next of kin, turned tail and fled to a tree.

Let's Talk About Sex ...

I never thought I'd learn more about sex (sexuality, and STDs) from a book about the bubonic plague: Norman F. Cantor's In The Wake of the Plague. Take for example:

There is thus--if [Stephen J.] O'Brien is correct--a genetic relationship between the Black Death and AIDS. If you are descended from a Caucasian who contracted the plague of the mid-fourteenth century and that ancestor survived, you may have complete immunity to HIV/AIDS. And it is believed that up to 15 percent of the Caucasian population could fall into this lucky category. (21)

Almost inevitably Henry of Lancaster, John of Gaunt's heir, threw out his gay cousin Richard II and seized the crown with parliamentary approval. (57)

As Edward III aged (he didn't die--from gonorrhea--until 1377), the Black Prince took over leadership of the English continental armies, laying waste to huge parts of France and Spain. (38)

The last front-rank philosopher and theologian who had been archbishop of Canterbury was St. Anselm in the early years of the twelfth century. He did poorly as an archbishop, getting into needless quarrels with kings, exasperating the pope, and turning the monks of Canterbury into an ingroup of young gays. (111)

The three pandemics were smallpox and gonorrhea from A.D. 250 to A.D. 450 and bubonic plague from 540 to 600. Where smallpox and gonorrhea came from is unknown. Some historians have guessed from the black hole in Central Asia. They may have just as well have come up the great mortality chute from East Africa. Certainly that is where the bubonic plague came from after A.D. 500. (191)

And the one that takes the cake:

The dispossessed King Edward II was killed by a red-hot iron poker shoved up his anus. This savagery partly reflected hostility on the path of the Church and other opinion-makers to the king's homosexuality and his favoritism toward his young French male lover, but it also reflected the general malaise, anger, and pessimism of the new age of global cooling. (75)


Now the question is: Did Willie Shakespeare know?


If this day wasn't quaint enough already, of course, while on break outside, we beheld a bronzed fifty year old man exercising at the back of a nearby work building in his undies--his bike, and pilate ball parked nearby. All we were looking for was the kitten we saw amble by earlier. Is this supposed to be an 'Alice in Wonderland' moment?

It Was In Bobcaygeon, Where I Saw The Constellations

Even when I have all the time in the world to write something for this blog, I'm stumped. It's a lethargic Saturday alone at home today. Stayed up until 3:30 am to watch Ocean's Twelve, so I slept in to noon. It's been quiet at home so far, thankfully, as my dad went to work and my mom is at our cottage in Galway - near Kinmount, Burnt River, Bobcaygeon, Fenelon Falls. The strange thing is my Irish surname (Vahey--an anglicized spelling of an Irish Gaelic word meaning 'foundation') comes from one of the great Celtic tribes of Galway in Ireland. However, it is my mom's side of the family (her grandparents and father) that grew up in Galway, Ontario (up the hill from our cottage is the home where my grandfather was reared), a family of mixed Scottish and Irish descent. I don't quite know if that's serendipity, but it's certainly a coincidence. So I digress.

For a change I've been productive, cleaning the computer stand of its mess (books, papers), doing laundry, putting away dishes, letting the ferrets out to play, cooking teriyaki steaks. I have also been reading, intermittently, a new book published by Penguin on the Celts: James MacKillop's Myths and Legends of the Celts.

The sun is shining outside, finally, so I'll wrap up this post.

Something Rotten

While working today I was delighted to see William Golding's books re-relased by Faber & Faber - titles besides the infamous Lord of the Flies. So far I see they have re-printed The Spire, Pincher Martin and Inheritors - three books I will, eventually, get around to reading in the near future. However, it will have to wait as I have a review to write on Jasper Fforde's Something Rotten to enter a contest to win a $1000 scholarship from Chapters.

In other news, I recently decided that after I finish my degree I will have to put my graduate studies on hold - my parents won't support my academic endeavours financially (it's too much of a burden on their lives, they claim). Plus it's about time to establish myself - work full-time, move out, buy a new car - and eventually down the road I'll write that M.A. on the New Weird movement (Neil Gaiman and China Mieville come to mind). Cheers.

Spell Rite Tonight

Tonight is the big night. Spell Rite, a spelling competition between local companies, such as bookstores and libraries, is going down. Representing Chapters Square One are three people--me, Lori, and Eugene--for this fun annual event. Wish us luck! I'll be donning my Jasper Fforde Jurisfiction t-shirt for this special occasion.

ADDENDUM: Unfortunately, we did not prevail tonight. Rather disappointing, however, I managed to make a profit from raffle tickets.